


The Mistletoe Made Them Do It

by tealeaf523 (ConstantComment)



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Christmas, Dubious Consent, Hogwarts Eighth Year, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-05-11
Updated: 2011-05-11
Packaged: 2017-10-19 06:17:06
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,938
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/197862
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ConstantComment/pseuds/tealeaf523
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>(Written for the prompt "a mistletoe kiss that leads to so much more. Unestablished relationship, please!")</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Mistletoe Made Them Do It

**Author's Note:**

  * For [leo_draconis](https://archiveofourown.org/users/leo_draconis/gifts).



> **Author's Note:** Leo, this is a steamy little Christmas!fic for you! I'm sorry it took so long to post! D:  
>  **Warnings:** Slight dubcon.

There was an ancient spell at Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry that heralded the appearance of mistletoe in various nooks and crannies throughout the castle for the duration of each Christmas season. It was an innocent tradition for the most part—just a quick kiss could get both parties out of a sticky situation and on to their next classes. And these situations were indeed sticky. Each bedecked corner of the castle physically caged the unsuspecting student within an invisible barrier until they were released, and perhaps extremely embarrassed, by their rescuer.

Draco Malfoy had learned to avoid these places over the years, increasingly vigilant when he’d had a run-in with one on the sixth floor near the spare classrooms. He’d been fourteen and embarrassed indeed when a fifth year Ravenclaw, Christopher Levec, had pressed him against the archway where he was captive and stuck his tongue down Draco’s throat, leaving poor fourth year Draco red-faced, breathless, and terribly aroused. Christopher had winked at him, pressed a finger to his lips and left. It was a promise and a warning to keep quiet.

Draco had been sure to avoid any and all signs and sightings of mistletoe for the rest of his time at Hogwarts.

It wasn’t until sixth year that Draco had found out about another, very special mistletoe that appeared each year with a black ribbon around it. He’d heard rumours of such a thing before, but had assumed it was myth. But it wasn’t myth at all according to Linda Urquhart, a seventh year who had waltzed back to the Slytherin dorms one night during December, looking bedraggled and, frankly, well-fucked. She’d proceeded to pluck the black pin from the corkboard, where a makeshift map of Hogwarts hung displaying the many mistletoe hotspots throughout the castle. The black pin had been a joke up until this moment, but Linda had looked everyone in the eye, clearly not joking even a little bit, pinned it to the map and walked upstairs without a word. Draco had been busy enough in his free time that year, what with the weight of the repair of the Vanishing Cabinet and the approach of the attack on Hogwarts, to find himself anywhere near the kitchens, and so had luckily had no sexual congress with any Hufflepuffs that year. Nor with anyone else, but he wasn’t going to admit to that.

This year seemed no different, for the mistletoe sprung up everywhere even though most of the castle still lay in shambles, repairs continuing throughout the day while students—what little were left of the population—attended classes in the weeks before Christmas hols. What had surprised everyone was that the black mistletoe had appeared in a nook in the grand entrance, clearly visible from nearly every ground floor classroom and staircase in the vicinity. McGonagall had thankfully roped it off immediately after she’d seen it the first day of December. Therefore, even when the corridor was packed with students heading to and from the Great Hall, the mistletoe was easy to circumvent.

Draco’s eighth year at Hogwarts didn’t prove to be as easy as evading the black mistletoe, however. He’d made plenty of enemies—even people who had no knowledge of what exactly Draco did during the Second Voldemort War were wary of him, if not hostile to him. Even his fellow Slytherins didn’t care for him, seeing as some of them either still sympathized with Voldemort’s cause or lost their families for it, and Draco was a key player in that.

Which was most likely why, at four in the morning on December fifteenth, two days before the hols, that Draco was woken from a restless sleep, the blue light of an intense Lumos shining in his eyes as several Slytherin seventh years laughed down at him. Before he could think of a proper spell to protect himself, his wand was knocked from his tightly clenched fist and he was plunged into darkness by a blindfold charm. He struggled as they flipped him over, pressing elbows and forearms into his lower back and squeezing the breath out of him on a huffed, “Fuck you,” as they tied his wrists behind him.

Two years ago, he might’ve said, “I’ll have you expelled for this!” and one year ago, he might’ve even said, “I’ll kill you.” But he was changed since the war, and found that even an empty threat was too close to the real thing—to close to the horror of that threat coming to fruition.

“Finally getting what you deserve, Malfoy,” someone muttered while tightening the rope to the point of pain. Draco barely winced.

“Whatever helps you sleep at night,” he rasped, and was promptly knocked out by a retaliatory Stupefy.

Draco awoke curled up on cold stone, his arm under him asleep and his head aching. He managed to roll onto his back and into a sitting position without much injury, only scuffing his knuckles. He felt more than disoriented, but was glad at least that they hadn’t stripped him naked—he needn’t get expelled for public indecency, after all he’d done.

He didn’t have to wait long to confirm his assumptions of his location based on the frigidity of the air. He heard the sound of a staircase grinding to a halt and three pairs of leather-soled shoes clacking onto immovable stone.

“My goodness, is that Malfoy?” a girl whispered several feet away. “It is!”

He was in the Grand Entrance.

“I don’t suppose it would be too much of a nuisance for you to help me,” he said dully, waiting for their brains to kick in.

A second girl giggled but was quickly silenced by one of the others, and a third, one with a deeper voice, sighed. “Malfoy, I imagine you’re used to a bit of immorality and don’t expect even Slytherins to help you, but that’s not the thing that’s stopping us. We _can’t_ help you.”  
Draco swore over the sound of the second, giggly girl’s unnecessary clarification, “You’re in the roped area. You’re stuck under the black mistletoe!”

Draco leaned back with a groan, only to knock his head against the wall. Resigned to his fate, he scooted back and waited for a day of absolute humiliation, if not several days. Who would volunteer outright to shag a Slytherin, least of all a Malfoy?

The hoards came, and it seemed only five minutes had passed before he’d heard students of all ages and Houses getting their daily dose of laughter before breakfast or on the way to class. Draco pretended to be unfazed, but it wasn’t as fun—being on the spot—as he would’ve thought several years ago. For the most part, Draco kept his head down and rarely rose to the bait of his classmates. He’d managed to ignore the chatter until a certain trio of Gryffindors came into his range of hearing.

“Professor Vector’s quiz this afternoon is sure to determine the rest of my term. Oh, God, I’ll fail. I’m going to fail,” Granger’s disembodied voice floated over the thinning crowd. It must’ve been nearing eight o’clock.

“Relax, Hermione. You’ve never failed anything in your life,” Weasley said gruffly, apparently doing something that did not please his girlfriend, because there was a muffled ‘Ouch!’ and an answering, ‘Ronald!’ from the pair. Draco expected the third to speak up with some sarcastic comment and was not disappointed.

“Don’t worry about it, Hermione. If you fail, it’s not like anyone will be looking at your Arithmancy scores. They’ll be too distracted by your impressive—“

“… _Excuse_ me, Harry?”

“Yeah, what d’you mean by that, mate?” Weasley growled.

Draco smirked.

“Your impressive _background_ in every other class you’ve ever taken. Christ, what’d you think—Oh, bollocks. Look.”

Draco took a deep breath, exhaling on an agitated sigh.

“Oh, my,” said Granger, apparently catching on to whatever Potter was not saying.

“Merlin’s pants, Malfoy’s under the mistletoe,” Weasley laughed.

“Shut up, Ron,” both Granger and Potter snapped, and Draco heard footsteps approaching and the faint shift of displaced air, cool on his face.

“Morning Golden Boy, tagalongs,” Draco greeted with false cheer.

“Who put you in here?” Potter asked, apparently skipping the pleasantries.

“It doesn’t matter, Potter,” Draco sighed, shifting so his wrists wouldn’t hurt so much.

“The point is, who’s going to get him out, Harry, not who put him in,” Granger said, hushed.

“You tied up, Malfoy?” Weasley asked, surprisingly delicate. Well, for him.

Draco sighed. “Bound and blinded, yes. Would any of you like to help me out?”

“Er, no thanks, mate,” Weasley answered. “Uh, don’t fly for that tea—“

“Oh, calm down, Ronald. He’s not propositioning you.”

There was quiet until Potter muttered to Draco, “Turn around, yeah?”

“Be gentle,” Draco joked, and shuffled around until he was facing the wall on his knees.

“Relashio,” Potter said quietly but firmly, and the ropes snapped away.

Draco rubbed his stinging wrists, knowing they were red with rawness as he turned back around. He tugged at the blindfold, but it wouldn’t budge. “Oh hell,” he muttered.

“Hermione, why don’t you try?”

There was the whooshing of a wand whipping through the air but—nothing.

“Oh hell,” echoed Granger.

“Merlin’s beard! Mister Malfoy!”

“Morning Professor Slughorn,” all four of them greeted unenthusiastically.

“What on earth has possessed you to stick yourself under the mistletoe?” the older wizard asked, budging in next to the trio. “Oh, hello, Harry, m’boy. Hope you weren’t mocking poor Draco.”

“Actually, Professor, we were just helping him out a moment ago,” Granger interrupted graciously.

Weasley shifted. “Yeah, Malfoy was tied up a second ago,” he added.

“Oh, Robert, I’ve no business knowing your… proclivities.”

“Professor, I was put here as a prank,” Draco chimed in. “Will you let the other teachers know that I’ll not be attending classes? I’m sure they’ll understand I’d rather be in class than here.”

“That shouldn’t be too much of a problem, I don’t think. Should I go to the Headmistress to see what she can do about your predicament?”

Draco snorted.

“Unfortunately, Professor, the Headmistress tried to remove it earlier this month, but the enchantment just wouldn’t budge,” Granger said.

Potter cut in, “The spell for the mistletoe has been around for so long that it’s woven into the magic of the castle. Getting rid of the charm would disturb a lot of the wards holding Hogwarts up.”

Draco had learned not to question how Potter knew things like this. He schooled his expression to hide how impressed he may have been.

“Someone must’ve _really_ wanted some Christmas joy,” Weasley muttered.

“Well, it looks as if you’re incredibly stuck for the time being, Mister Malfoy,” Slughorn sighed, thoroughly unhelpful.

“Professor.” Potter’s voice was edgier. “Why don’t you conjure a chair for Malfoy?”

“Oh, certainly, Harry!”

There was a _THUNK_ , and Draco felt out with his hands what seemed to be a cushy armchair, fabric soft and nubby, wood sturdy and claw-footed.

“Now, let us all get to class, shall we?” Slughorn shooed them off, leaving Draco to curl up in the chair, tucking his feet between the cushion and the arm to keep them warm.

“D’you need anything else, Malfoy?” Potter’s voice startled him. He’d been sure that they’d all left. The man scuffed the toe of each shoe against the rough stone of the floor, in a show of nerves atypical of a Gryffindor.

“I’m fine, Potter. Don’t be late for class for me.”

“Just being courteous.”

“I didn’t know you knew what that word meant,” Draco drawled, smiling despite himself.

“Apparently neither do your Slytherin mates,” Potter said humourlessly, and stormed off.

“That was a joke, Potter. Get a grip!”

“Hilarious, Malfoy!” the man called out from the top of a staircase, voice echoing oddly and distorting the frustration in his voice.

Draco wouldn’t have minded this situation so much if the weather weren’t so bloody frigid.  
“Should’ve asked for slippers,” he mumbled aloud.

The day passed uneventfully, of course, beside the few and far between taunts and sometimes even harmless jinxes that left him with steam coming out of his ears or bats flying about his head. At least a part of those particular jinxes was the added horror of _seeing_ the effects oneself, so Draco was kind of apathetic about it. Besides, he was too busy thinking about how no one was going to volunteer themselves to have sex with him, especially not during daylight, when everyone was around to point fingers and laugh.

McGonagall appeared around four, judging by the ring of the clock tower, and apologised profusely for not having arrived sooner.

“It’s all right, Headmistress,” Draco said, feeling somewhat badly that the witch seemed terribly harried and angered on his behalf.”

“No one bothered to inform me until noon! How dare Horace do such a thing as leave you to sit here all day.”

“There’s not much he could do, Professor—“

“But by the time I heard about this, I was having a luncheon with the Headmaster of Gömlumgöldrum, and then a meeting with the trustees.”

“It’s not a problem, Professor McGonagall.” Draco smirked. “Professor Slughorn gave me a chair, so all is forgiven.”

“Draco, you know very well why I wasn’t informed for some time. I heard it from Harry, funnily enough, who thought _I_ was purposefully keeping you uncomfortable. No matter what, you are a student of Hogwarts and as such you are the responsibility of every professor in this establishment.”

Draco shrugged, used to it. “Yes, Professor.”

“Is there anything I can do to make this any less…” she trailed off, obviously at a loss for words, because sitting in an armchair under the black mistletoe was a lot of things. None of which was comfortable, enjoyable, or desirable.

“A cloak would be nice. And maybe some slippers. And food.”

“You’ve not been fed, either?” McGonagall shook her head and called sharply for a House Elf before floating a warm cloak to Draco, which had surely had been winked into existence just a moment ago. Slippers bumped into his knees and he plucked them out of the air and shoved them onto his chilled toes, humming at the warming spell. He curled up and listened as the Headmistress addressed Fribby to give Draco whatever foods he wanted from the kitchens.

After that, it wasn’t terrible, even if McGonagall’s sign of ‘All those who throw any hex, jinx, or charm in this hallway will answer to the Headmistress’ didn’t have much effect.

In fact, Draco was still recovering from a funny hex that turned his toes to creeping vines, rendering the slippers completely useless, when he heard a scuffle of shoes in the darkness. It was nearing twelve AM, if Draco hadn’t miscounted. He had been dosing lightly until now, when he heard this someone who hadn’t been courteous enough to make themselves. Instead they thought it would be a good idea to creep clumsily about like Draco’s blindness had made him temporarily deaf as well.

“Have you come to sacrifice yourself to my cause?” Draco drawled into the heavy silence, voice echoing up in the high-vaulted ceiling, causing the person to knock into a suit of armour near the entrance to the Great Hall.

The student cleared his throat. _His_ throat.

“Oh,” Draco said, quietly, somehow not expecting that. He’d only ever had open admirers of the female persuasion, and it had been quite a while since any of them had been… openly open. “Hello, there,” he tried again.

“Hi.” The voice was muffled and hard to make out, but Draco smiled at the lumbering concern. This was not a Slytherin. The anonymous student came closer, radiating nerves that (pun intended) even a blind man could see. “I thought you were sleeping.” The boy scuffed his shoes. Once for each foot. Draco sank into the soft fabric of the wing-backed chair, blushing head to toe. The man was Potter. Of course—of all the fucking schoolboys in the entire of-age population—

“It’s far too cold to sleep properly,” Draco muttered, feeling jittery. He needed to stand, walk around, process the information. Which was a terrible idea, because his balance wasn’t quite right since he’d lost one of his senses. He wobbled precariously as he stepped forward to get closer to Potter.

Of course, he _would_ lose whatever dignity he had left tripping on one of the ruined slippers that he’d kicked off in an angry fit several hours ago. He toppled forward rather spectacularly.

“Woah!” Hands, calloused and warm, caught him as he stumbled. Draco grasped at the first thing he could get to, which turned out to be a soft flannel collar against the lightly haired skin of Potter’s nape. He’d never wondered—at length—about Potter’s probably baby soft skin but he was not disappointed. “Shit, are you all right?” Potter exclaimed, lips perilously close to Draco’s ear as Potter kept him from slamming his knees into the hard floor.

Then he realized. They were both under the mistletoe’s power, now. He swore into the fabric of Potter’s shirt.

“Oh, _no_! Sorry, sorry—I’m so sorry, I didn’t mean to, I just—!”

Draco took a deep breath before pushing himself up to standing, still gripping Potter’s collar tightly. They were probably nose-to-nose right now. He could feel their body heat mingling in the small space between them, and for a moment, Draco was very glad he had a blindfold across his eyes, instead of just a blinding spell. There was no masking his emotions, just now.

“I’m sorry,” said Potter again. His breath was distractingly minty, like toothpaste.

“Quite a different tone you’re taking, compared to the last time…” Draco changed the subject. In a situation other than this, Draco might have had a very good retort counting the numerous ways that this wizard was a royal arse and a first-class idiot, but he just trailed off, feeling a bit like a first-class idiot, himself.

“I’ve had time to cool off.”

“Hm.”

“I really am sorry,” Potter sighed, making sure that Draco was firmly on his feet before attempting to let go. Draco’s hands shot out again and landed on Potter’s shoulders.

“Nothing to be done about it, now,” said Draco.

Potter let go of Draco to scratch the back of his head. “I had a speech planned out for you before you ruined everything by falling over like a swooning damsel,” he began. “Why I wasn’t trying to take advantage of you, even in this lose-lose situation, and how much I want to personally punch each of those seventh-years if you’d just identify them—Christ, Malfoy, who are you protecting, anyway?—and then there would’ve been the admission of attraction, and how we’ve always dodged around each other for years, and I’ve secretly wanted to fix things with you because you’re different than I thought you were.” As Potter spoke he tentatively slid his hand back to its previous resting place at Draco’s hip. “Still a prick and a snob at times but dee—“

Draco jerked the man toward him and, somewhat clumsily due to his obvious handicap, pressed his lips to his unlikely saviour.

The man grunted, but the hands on Draco’s waist fisted in the silky fabric of his pyjamas before he readjusted to slip them around the ticklish spots on Draco’s ribcage. Draco twitched a little, crowding into the warm space between them and daring to lick at the other’s lips, tasting the spearmint and the slick heat of his tongue. He tugged Draco closer when Draco scratched his fingers up into the mess of soft, thick hair behind his ears.

“You were babbling, Potter. Let’s get to how I’m really full of marshmallows some other time.”

Draco could feel the tension creep up into Potter’s shoulders, like he’d been caught out and was about to run off. “Er…”

“I mean, you could count the ways I’m so secretly wonderful, but I’d really rather kiss you,” Draco drawled, thumb flicking Potter’s earlobe in an affectionate gesture he hadn’t planned.

Potter relaxed slowly, taking one hand off of Draco’s ribs and grabbing his chin instead. He guided Draco toward him and kissed him gently—and really, wasn’t that sweet? But Draco wanted… He _wanted_. He nipped at Potter’s bottom lip and the hand on his chin disappeared. Potter tilted his head and opened his mouth moaning lightly as Draco slipped his tongue against Potter’s. Draco heard the bright whirling sound of a transfiguration spell, which inspired a little shiver down Draco’s spine—the _power_ it took to transfigure something while multi-tasking—and then Potter’s hand was back on him, heated, dry fingers brushing on the blonde hairs at Draco’s lower back, middle finger slipping just under the waistband of his sleeping trousers. Draco moved quickly down to Potter’s arse, fit and round—Seeker’s bum—in his hands. He pulled him close, pressing up against him. His long legs against Potter’s slightly shorter ones made for an interesting dynamic. He was currently pressing more than a bit of interest into Potter’s toned lower stomach. He could feel a mirroring interest against the top of his thigh.

They fit.

“What’d you do?” he asked, referring to the spell Potter had cast, perhaps a few more minutes farther along than would have been appropriate to ask.

“Hmmph?” Potter asked, nosing his way down to Draco’s collar and pushing the silky fabric away before mouthing a kiss into a very sensitive spot on Draco’s neck. He sucked and bit until Draco was writhing against him, fingers squeezing Potter’s arse hard enough that Potter gasped and bucked into the snug crease between Draco’s thigh and hip.

Draco kissed him while they cooled off for a moment, and asked him again what magic he’d performed.  
Harry pressed a final kiss to the corner of Draco’s mouth. “Trust me?”

“Just barely,” Draco joked.

“Good enough,” Potter said, shrugged slightly, and then shoved him down.

It was too quick for Draco to even call out; by the time he’d registered that he was falling, he was landing on the soft, springy padding of a mattress. He fell back on one elbow and gaped, indignant, in Potter’s general direction. Before he was able to growl, “You Gryffindor bastard!” the mattress dipped, and Draco found himself with an armful of Potter, who was mouthing smirky kisses from his navel back up to his collar through his pyjamas. Draco jerked with arousal each time Potter moved, unused to the laughing but tender kisses. Potter pressed him into the mattress with his hips when their lips met again.

“I would’ve been willing to do this even if we didn’t have to, you know,” Potter muttered as he fingered Draco’s waistband.

“Merlin, Potter. I know you fancy me—that much is obvious.” Draco mapped his way down Potter’s chest and over the hard bulge in the other’s trousers, pointer finger scraping against Potter’s fly as he squeezed him firmly.

“I just wanted—ah!” Potter shuddered, pausing and taking a breath as he gathered his control. “I wanted you to know.”

Draco didn’t want to wait for the inevitable sentimentality. He nosed his way along Potter’s jaw, nuzzling into Potter’s feathery fringe before kissing just under a chilled earlobe, palm again pressing into the vee of the other’s denims. Potter moaned quietly, a small needy sound caught in his throat, and rocked into Draco’s hand. His leg slid over Draco’s silk-clad one while his other knee pushed between Draco’s legs. They were tangled, it seemed, and Draco was both surprised and pleased.

“C’mere,” he said, and hooked a finger over the waistband of Potter’s jeans, trying to get closer.  
Instead of effectively bringing his bed partner closer, he popped the button open, finger catching on the zip and Potter’s cotton boxer-briefs beneath.

Potter made a noise somewhere between a laugh and a gasp.

Draco snaked his other hand to the zip of Potter’s trousers and scrabbled and pushed until his jeans were halfway down his legs and the boxer-briefs at least out of the way. Draco grinned when his fingers found the other’s cock again, this time uncovered and slick with precum. It was slender, warm.

Potter groaned quietly again. His breath puffed across Draco’s lips in the dark, and Draco hooked an elbow around his neck to bring them close. It felt amazing; a warm body—male, and fit, and (if Draco could finally admit it) gorgeous—against him. A cock in his palm, a kiss on his lips—several kisses, in fact.

Potter’s hands were restless, squeezing, pulling. He’d grabbed Draco’s arse a moment ago, hooking Draco’s leg over his waist as he rocked against Draco’s erection, dampening the sleeping trousers in the process and suddenly it wasn’t enough. There was too much—he wasn’t close enough even with Potter wrapped around him like Devils Snare. He just… _really_ wanted to be naked. His silk pyjamas would be ruined if they pushed this any further.

“Get these off,” Potter said, as if Draco’d been thinking out loud.

“Yes,” Draco gasped, hand sadly leaving Potter’s prick in favour of shucking his trousers. Potter tugged them quickly, and even if Draco looked stupid as hell kicking his naked legs in the air, Potter didn’t seem too put off. Especially since in the next few frantic seconds, he crawled back to Draco and leaned a newly bare forearm over Draco’s hips. Draco yelped as a warm mouth closed over his neglected cock. “Yes,” he hissed again.

Potter moaned, trying to swallow as much of him as possible before he gagged a little with eagerness. Draco shushed him, a hand finding his ruffled hair and rubbing a thumb across Potter’s temple, a signal to not overdo it. Potter backed off and coughed before returning to suck and lap at the crown of Draco’s cock.

Draco groaned, eyes sliding shut under the blindfold as his legs quivered and sweat gathered under his knees. His hips twitched even under the weight of Potter’s arm. His thumb found the corner of Potter’s swollen mouth and he mourned the darkness of the blindfold. He could practically see the delicious image of his own prick sliding in and out of Potter’s mouth, a fantasy that he may have had once or twice in his early sexual awakening. But it still wasn’t real. Gritting his teeth, Draco flitted his fingers back into Harry’s hair, feeling over-stimulated. He had it mostly under control until Potter’s fingers, slick with spit and precum, crept between his legs and brushed lightly against his hole.

“ _Hah_ —Potter. Stop—stop, stop!”

“What’s up?” the other asked, voice raspy as he climbed back up Draco’s body.

“I was gonna come if you’d done that,” Draco said to the ceiling, already mourning the loss of contact.

Potter chuckled lightly, wrapping Draco’s legs around his waist again. Their sensitive cocks brushed against each other, making breaths catch and eyes flutter. “Wasn’t that the point?”

“We don’t have all night, you arse,” said Draco exasperatedly.

“…Right. I may have forgotten that bit.”

Draco stretched his arms, trying to back away from the edge of orgasm. “Distracted?” he finally asked.

Potter squeezed Draco’s leg firmly. “Extremely.”

“All right.”

“Hmm?” Potter leaned down and began a trail of open-mouthed kisses across Draco’s chest, unbuttoning the silky shirt he still wore, pushed up to his underarms.

“All right, now you can fuck me.”

Potter paused. “Now?”

“Damn it, _yes_!”

But Potter was already sniggering. Draco found the other’s hand at his knee and pulled Potter’s fingers into his mouth, tongue swirling around the tips and tasting the salt from their mingled sweat. Potter went quiet quite quickly, breaths speeding up. He was inhaling though his nose, stomach expanding and contracting against Draco’s thighs as Draco sucked his finger down to his knuckles. Draco knew they were both ready when Potter’s hips started rolling again.

Potter was quick and dextrous, careful but thorough, and was fucking Draco with three fingers in under a minute, humming along with Draco’s gasps.

“God. I need to fuck you. Are you ready?”

Draco nodded.

The moment the head of Harry’s cock slipped in, Draco realized he hadn’t been as ready as he’d thought. After all, it’d been six months since he last did this. He gritted his teeth, grabbed Potter’s forearms.

“You’re bloody tight—“ Potter whispered around a groan, seating himself fully in Draco’s arse.  
Draco squeezed involuntarily, eliciting a mewl from his bed partner. He was so full. Full up. Potter fell forward a bit when Draco squeezed him again.

“Sorry.”

“S’okay. S’good.”

“Yeah?” Draco murmured.

“Yeah,” Potter said.

Draco took a big breath. He wanted to see.

“Tell me when you’re ready, yeah?”

“I need to see.” His heart was battering in his ribcage, as trapped as Draco felt.

“Sorry,” Potter said.

Draco found Potter’s shoulder, grasping his hair and tugging.

“Are you okay?”

Draco felt like he couldn’t catch his breath. “I want to see you. Potter, I need—Fuck! I want to—“

“D’you think I can take it off?”

“Try! Get it off!”

With a surprising bout of strength Potter pulled Draco upright and into his lap, his cock slipping even deeper into Draco’s arse in the new position as he fumbled with the knot at the back of Draco’s head.

“Get it off,” Draco gasped, nose pressed into Harry’s collarbone, hands gripping his hips, nails digging half-moons into his lower back.

The cloth slipped away as soon as Potter’d untied the complicated knot, and Draco blinked quickly, breathing heavily. Potter’s sweaty face was close, dark because Draco’s eyes were still readjusting, but Draco could make out the concerned frown. His hair was standing on end, with little rivers of space where Draco’s fingers had mapped through the thick locks. Even in the dark, his eyes were startlingly green.

“Can you see?” he asked.

Draco grabbed his face and pressed their lips together. Potter eagerly opened his mouth, arms cradling Draco’s back as Draco plundered his mouth. One hand slipped around to tug at Draco’s returning erection, and he began to thrust shallowly, hips rolling as much as they could without leverage. Draco moved in Potter’s embrace, moaning into his mouth when his prick hit Draco’s prostate.

“There we go,” Potter muttered happily, letting go of Draco to lean back on his elbows. Draco grinned back before his eyes rolled back; his hips jerked with the new angle.

“ _Hunh!_ ” Draco said eloquently.

Potter grabbed at Draco’s arse and planted his heels into the bed so they could meet thrust for thrust, and soon Draco’s moans were loud, choking gasps. He bent over with pleasure, muscles weak with the endorphins.

“C’mon.Come on!” Potter groaned. He wrapped his fingers around Draco’s cock and stripped it, thrusting into Draco’s ever tightening arse.

“Oh, Merlin. Ah!” Draco’s hips jerked violently and he came, thighs quivering as Potter squeezed the orgasm out of him, following quickly with a groan and a warmth that left Draco feeling fuller than before.

They collapsed together, Potter slipping messily out of him as he softened. There was a whisper of a spell and they were clean but cold in the quiet of the Grand Entrance.

Draco moaned at the loss of warmth, curling into Potter’s chest. A hand cupped his jaw and lips met his as he rested, still floating on his post-coital high. His eyelashes were dark against his cheeks. Draco found didn’t want to close his eyes at all. Potter’s tongue was slick and warm, inviting, as it lapped at his lips and pressed feather-light kisses to the corners of his mouth.

So, Potter was one of those.

“You get very affectionate when you come, don’t you?” Draco muttered.

Potter smacked his arse lightly and Summoned their clothing, which flopped over Draco’s lower back and legs.

“Yeah, I do. Not a problem, is it?”

“No. Just taking notes for next time.” Draco looked up at Potter, who propped his neck up under his arm and looked down at him, face showing every little emotion that he was feeling under the haze of his own blissful high.

“You wanna do this again?”

Draco yawned. “Well,” he began, hand splaying across an uncovered part of Potter’s abdomen, keeping him warm. “Perferrably not here, but yes. That was good.”

“Just good?”

“Again, the situation brings the grade down to an ‘Exceeds Expectations’, as you certainly exceeded any expectations I had about my fate tonight.”

“Well, when you put it that way…” Potter rolled his eyes and flipped them over, licking into Draco’s mouth again. “I’ll have to study up and test again some other time. I settle for nothing but ‘Outstanding’.”

“Perhaps you should take me to dinner first, then.”

Potter grinned down at him. “You’re certainly different after you’ve been fucked senseless,” he murmured.

Draco shook his head and set to putting on his probably soiled clothing. His trousers were stained, but nothing untoward had become of the silk shirt. He watched placidly as Potter wriggled into his denims and picked up his jumper. The muscles played nicely in the light of his wand as he slipped the jumper on, a trail of dark hair slipping beneath his boxer-briefs to something Draco already knew was pretty bloody fantastic.

Fuck all if he’d get through any of his lessons now that this had happened. Perhaps the both of them would have to study together to make up for the distractions.

“Let’s get outta here.”

“Are you going to walk me to my door, Mr. Potter?”

Harry grinned, looking down at his feet and scuffing one untied shoe. “”Course. I’m a Gryffindor.”

Draco backed him out of the boundary of the black mistletoe, giving the damned thing one glare before giving Potter another kiss. Again, the other boy performed some multi-tasking magic while Draco remained utterly distracted by his slightly chapped lips. The mattress and slippers were gone when Draco looked back for the last time before strolling down to the dungeons.

There were still people in the Common Room when Draco gave the password, fingers knit with Potter’s as the archway expanded from a keyhole to a proper door, revealing the several sixth and seventh-years who were all drinking around the fire, faces green with the eerie light of the lake.

Harry gripped Draco’s fingers as if he was reluctant for him to go, but it was most likely because of the astonished, glaring faces behind Draco as he leaned down and snogged the hell out of the Boy Who Lived. He may have gotten carried away because Potter was grabbing at his sore arse before they broke apart.

“Can I write you over the hols? I’d feel weird if we left it like this for a month.”

Draco watched him worry at his lip before Harry realized that Draco was staring. Draco smiled. “Of course. I’m a Slytherin after all. Looking out for my own interests.”

Potter sniggered, pressing a quick kiss to his cheek before pulling a cloak out of his pocket and literally disappearing into the darkness.

“First thing you’re going to write me is what the fuck _that_ is,” Draco said, knowing Harry was still close enough to hear, probably still watching Draco in the arch of the doorway.

“Sweet dreams, Draco.” His muffled voice was teasing, affectionate.

Draco rolled his eyes, blushing wildly again, and strolled up to his dormitory. He made sure to wink at the students, their mouths gaping like fishes out of water, before he ascended the stairs, happy.

He had a lot more to look forward to in the New Year.


End file.
